Superheroes
by Faintly Falling
Summary: Mainly focuses on OC in the universe of Jersey Wolf's AU stories. An examination of Sebs' mental space, with elements of character study. It's not a happy place in there...


Sebs is an over-educated lawyer who works for a company that deals with land development. Tom's his best friend. He's a single, lonely, sardonic workaholic. Story can be read as either guilty ponderings in the Mental Hospital AU or as a moment of contemplation after Tom's death in the context of the movie.

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><p>Superman has the worst secret identity ever. Anyone will tell you. Just a stupid pair of glasses. Yeah, sure, he's Clark Kent but Clark Kent isn't anything but a pair of glasses and a press badge. Superman is Superman is Superman…it's who he was born to be. He has to hide his power, his strength…he pretends to be weak, no good at love, a peon. Superman is none of those things; he has to feign weakness, he has to feign failure just to pass as a human. "Mild-mannered Clark Kent"…<p>

I wanted to be Superman, you know, what little kid doesn't? Leaping tall buildings in a single bound and all that. Strength and power, not to mention shooting lasers out of your eyes. He could even fly—nothing limited him or scared him. Well, nothing but a little green rock. And even so, he'd fight while that stuff was draining him dry. I never stopped wanting to be Superman. I convinced myself that I was, actually. Last son of Krypton, the best, the strongest in a world full of weakness. I didn't need anyone. I could save the world, but I didn't need help from anybody. No, never. _I _don't need anyone at all. That's weak; to need is weak. Other people are allowed to need but not me, never me. I'm better than that. Don't think I'm proud though; don't think I'm allowed to celebrate this. It's expected. I should only be able to do as much. Superheroes don't make a decision-they were born for what they were meant to be and they accept it without question.

Any psychiatrist would balk at these thoughts. Call me arrogant, grandiose, an egomaniac. They'd tell me that heroes are made, not born; that heroism is reluctant, painful, and humble. Heroes don't know that they're heroes.

Is that what makes you a hero? Not thinking about who, about what you are? I won't not-know. I need to know. Always. I won't wait around for people to tell me what I am.

I failed in knowing, though.

Superman could always hear when someone needed help. Always. Super-hearing. Too bad you'd need a Super-megaphone to get through my thick head. Hell, **he** had one, biggest and loudest that he could manage and it still didn't do either of us any good. I couldn't hear it, he couldn't call loud enough.

Is that what I needed to wake me up, a damn murder? Or is it two? Hell if I know.

People think Superman's a dick. He's too confident, almost cocky. Occasionally, he leaves a broken wall in his wake on his way to rescue someone. But he gets the job done. I managed to convince myself that I was Superman. Mild-mannered, hardworking employee; friendly, light-hearted coworker, the Man of Steel underneath. No home planet to bind me, no more of my kind anywhere. An alien.

My kryptonite was a human puppy-dog with stubborn hair and an even more stubborn outlook. A pair of the most intense eyes I've ever seen and a voice that could persuade me to do almost anything.

Almost.

He was a fellow alien.

Superman didn't get caught up in petty human drama. He played around with Jimmy, with Lois but he wasn't bound to either of them. He saved them when need be, but he maintained his distance. Anything where Superman made a long-term commitment was a "dream" or an "alternate universe". The most intimate relationship he had was with Luthor. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Does that make **him **both? Maybe.

At the end of the day, Superman was still Superman. He had alien blood running through his veins, he could break down walls when they were in his way, he could bend steel bars like pretzels if he needed a party trick...He didn't have to try, it as natural to him as breathing. No matter what had happened, he could retreat to the fortress of solitude, put his feet up on his Super-couch and all would be well. There'll be more villains, more victims but in the meantime, nothing was going to get to him.

I tried. Really, I did. There's no steel inside of me. At best, I'm Clark Kent. A bumbling everyman who'll be running the same treadmill for the rest of his life. And underneath that...what? Just a bunch of _feelings_. Too many goddamn feelings. Not hard to imagine why some people just can't take it anymore.

Clark Kent wasn't even real. He was just an act, a pair of glasses. I'm not Superman. I'm not strong enough and I never will be.

I wanted to save the world once. I was going to save everybody from themselves, the hidden danger that nobody saw coming. A Super-Hippie, if you will. In time, I learned better. I realized it was unrealistic, presumptuous. But I still thought I could save people; maybe help even just _**one **_person...

I'm no superhero.


End file.
